


When the Dream Ends

by runicmagitek



Category: Final Fantasy X & Final Fantasy X-2
Genre: Afterlife, Alternative title - How Lulu Got Her Groove Back, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Lulu/Wakka - Freeform, Because canon is dumb and said so but not to worry we're gonna fix that, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Canon, Reunions, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: It doesn’t matter if what he experiences is real or his deepest wishes flourishing as illusions—the thought of seeing her again is all that keeps him from dissolving and becoming a part of the Farplane.Auron still sees Lulu, even in death, and hopes the life she lives is the one she wants.
Relationships: Auron/Lulu (Final Fantasy X & X-2)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wingsyouburn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsyouburn/gifts).



It doesn’t hurt this time. For years he blends into the living world and ignores the numbness riddling his body. It evaporates when the pain returns, when someone attempts to send him to the Farplane. Those instances are rare and when Yuna dances, Auron feels something else.

He cannot place it—this new sensation. Perhaps it is warmth or even happiness. Yuna hesitates, but Auron nods.

“Go on,” he tells her.

And beyond Yuna’s fluid motions, he finds her. The others watch in a circle, but she stays on the outskirts, crossing her arms. She stares not at him, but through him. A little off-center, evading his gaze in return. But it’s when the pyreflies cloud his view and the airship fades beneath his feet that he notices how she clings to herself, as if she will disappear with him.

She turns away before the white haze takes him. The jingle of her hair ornaments is the last thing he hears.

Only when he realizes he wants her accompanying him does the agony blaze to life.

* * *

Jecht cackles, his voice echoing in the Farplane. Even Braska laughs. A blink of an eye and Tidus appears, like he is there the entire time. It is a reunion of vibrant colors, blurring like a dream. The pyreflies revolve around him and hum their ethereal call. Auron should be happy; he is no longer bound by vows tethering him to the physical world. He has succeeded and can rest—his own Calm.

But a phantom haunts his soul and he almost begs to be torn from this serene landscape and return to the world of the living. He strays from his companions—no, they’re _friends_ ; they are well past that, now—and stands at a cliff with infinite waterfalls defying physics and folding into one another. It sounds like rain and smells like late-night bonfires.

He sits on his heels, meeting the lush earth. Instead of meditating, he submerges into his thoughts, allows each one to multiply until millions of voices scream.

Braska approaches him. “I thought you would be content here.”

Auron says nothing. It doesn’t ward off a concerned friend, but sometimes silence says plenty.

“If there is something we can do,” Braska begins and Auron stifles a laugh.

“If you could,” he explains, “I wouldn’t be here.”

The conversation ends and Braska bows out with a soft smile. Auron stays, no longer bound to hunger or exhaustion or any physical restraint. Eternity envelops him and he spends it alone with his doubts and regrets.

* * *

He learns more about the Farplane than Spira has for generations. The colors blend and warp and thus the landscape transforms based on who is present. Billions of sent souls exist in a single plane, each one experiencing their own afterlife. Auron discovers it first not by his own doing, but Jecht’s.

His friend misses the dream world he calls home and in seconds, the Farplane abides by his wishes. The air ripples until it gives way to Zanarkand. Not the ruins, but the thriving city the rest of the world forgot. Streetlights glimmer like stars as crowds chant in a distant blitzball stadium. Jecht and Tidus submerge into the illusion, but Auron focuses on the cracks in the spell. Pyreflies ebb and flow. Buildings turn translucent, revealing the Farplane underneath, then resume the act.

It’s a convincing spell. How else would the Farplane contain countless spirits forever? Everyone settles into their own fantasy, but Auron prefers the Farplane in its raw form. He returns to the same cliffside, where the same waterfalls gush. He leaves only when his friends plea for his company. Otherwise, he sits and looks to the opalescent sky.

He imagines what he could have done differently to alter his fate. Each time, he comes to a single answer—if anything changed, there was a chance his path wouldn’t have crossed with hers.

Auron sighs, the sound coarse in his throat, and lowers his head. He wanted a life without regrets. Some happenings tested that ideology, stretched it until he almost broke. He lived the best he could while upholding his beliefs. Most people in Spira couldn’t claim as much.

But he thinks now not back to his time with Braska and Jecht, not when he confronted Yunalesca, not when he transported Tidus to the _real_ Spira… but to the moments with _her_.

He imagines most people are blinded by her striking beauty, but it was her dry wit which hooked him. He used to smirk under his high collar when she verbally struck down those who condescended her. Considering their eclectic group, it was comforting to find someone with a similar mindset. No lecturing, no rolling eyes, none of that. When they weren’t guardians, they were peers.

Quiet moments comprised their time together. Outside of battle and landmarks in their pilgrimage, she sought him out. No reason, save for sitting beside him and basking in the silence. He too relished that—to exist with someone without filling the air with mindless prattle.

But now he recalls each memory and frowns.

She told him something, then. About how she was unsure of her future after Yuna’s pilgrimage. Many of the guardians swore to step forth and be Yuna’s Final Aeon, but her promise was different. And Auron recognized it—he still does now. It mirrored his lack of aspirations through their travels, knowing full well what his fate was. No amount of praying or defying fate would change the outcome.

And there he sits, thinking of how she expected nothing from the future. How long has she felt hollow, he wonders? What could he have done to comfort her?

His own doubts bubble forth, of the times he kept distance between them on the pretense of formalities and respect, of the times he berated himself for wishing to tuck her loose hair behind her ear to see both her eyes. The idea of upsetting her doesn’t sit well with Auron, even in the afterlife.

Still, he ponders. Every storm has its calm. With enough patience, he could ease into her, inch-by-inch. Like their quiet lulls together, sitting outside of an inn or camp to marvel at the world they longed to save without a word. He should have broken their unspoken vow of mutual silence, then—tell her the truth behind his interest in her. Romantics elude Auron even now, but maybe he would have tempted it if it meant informing her know before the end.

But she doesn’t know. Just as he isn’t certain she would have ever welcomed him.

* * *

He doesn’t notice, at first. Auron dismisses the faint echoes as memories and imaginary scenarios he is unable to relinquish—a life that will never be and never was. Yet he grips them as if they are what keeps him grounded in the Farplane. While lingering behind his friends, the voices creep closer.

One second he is exploring the unraveling sprawl of the Farplane. The next he turns and finds himself in Luca.

He misses the thin layers in the illusion where the Farplane peeks through. All he senses is the strong, salt air, the white noise of the ocean waves, and a familiar face strolling down a dock.

He forgets he is dead, forgets how much time has passed, if any at all. He leaves his honor and dignity elsewhere as he closes the distance between them… to what? To embrace her? To bury his face in the crook of her bare neck? To inhale the mix of subtle incense and beach aroma that always imbues her? To tell her he’s missed her and will never leave her again?

His steps fall short and she continues walking. Once she walks through him, he recalls his place in this world.

It doesn’t stop him from looking back. Is it a memory taunting him? No, this instance is foreign. She walks to Yuna and only then does he recognize the distant whistle piercing the heavens. Another voice enters, but Auron cannot discern the words. She is too far away, yet at his fingertips.

And when she retraces her steps, Auron steps aside, licks his lips, and speaks.

“Lulu.”

There is no stutter in her stride, no flick in her eyes. She walks on as she always has.

It stings worse than the first time he resisted a sending, delving into his no longer beating heart. Perhaps it is a sign for him to be at peace with his death. That is why he is in the Farplane, isn’t it? Because he accepted this fate? Yet he continues to think of her and how she is faring and if she is happy with the future she never wanted for herself.

The world shifts. He waits to return to the Farplane, but the waterfalls and pyreflies do not greet him. He stands behind his former allies. They all watch Yuna as she approaches a podium in the blitzball stadium. People flood the seats and their cheers are no different from the distant lull of the ocean. Yuna’s voice echoes, the magic amplifying her voice, yet it is muffled.

He brings his attention to the woman in front of him. Would he stand beside her if he still breathed? Would she humor him with holding hands? Perhaps a single mutter of sarcasm to break the monotony? Would that make her smile, even briefly?

He likes to think she is smiling. She always spoke highly of Yuna; that alone won Auron over. She should be proud, just as he is, but she wraps her arms around herself when Yuna bows and steps away. Painted nails dig into the black fabric, almost piercing it.

Just as she did when Yuna carried out his sending.

As his eye widen and his feet carry him around to face her, images waver and ripple away. He blinks and is back in the Farplane, but he still smells the salt staining the air.

“Welcome back!” It’s Jecht who calls out. “Have yourself a nice trip?”

Auron doesn’t look over his shoulder to acknowledge him, never mind answer.

Later, he speaks with Braska about what he saw. Maybe he has an answer. But his friend’s lips curl down and his vast wisdom cannot ease Auron’s troubled mind.

“The Farplane works in mysterious ways,” is all he can offer as consolation. “Sometimes it’s better that we don’t know.”

But that’s the problem. For the first time—in a _long_ time—Auron wants to dig until he understands. More importantly, maybe he’ll see her again. It doesn’t matter if what he experiences is real or his deepest wishes flourishing as illusions—the thought of seeing her again is all that keeps him from dissolving and becoming a part of the Farplane.

* * *

Time doesn’t behave as it should in the Farplane; Auron wonders if it exists at all. Neither Jecht nor Braska have aged, yet Auron had before joining them. Jecht tries to convince Auron he can reverse his aging if he so wishes. Anything’s possible now. Why hang onto an old shell of a body?

He knows why. He doubts either Jecht or Braska will understand.

But it doesn’t erase the notion that the flow of the Farplane warps his understanding of Spira. He forgets what it means to sleep after a long day and how food tastes. There are other areas he clings to, fearing if he forgets, then he will lose whatever connection to the real world he has. Because it must be that and not figments of his imagination.

So he remembers her scent and remembers what that distinct blend is associated with. It’s a small candle flickering on a windowsill. It’s the fresh earth after a night of rain. It’s the salt staining the air and the wind dancing in the trees. It’s comforting and enticing and heart-wrenching.

He closes his eye and basks in the sensations that will never reside in the Farplane. Once he opens his eye, he’s there.

Little has changed in Besaid and he is grateful for the constants to anchor him, for all else is foreign. The village flourishes, full of families and smiling faces. He almost doesn’t recognize Yuna within the crowd. How much time has passed, he wonders? Has she found a new purpose in this world that has no need for summoners anymore?

The scenery warps and he follows Yuna elsewhere. Eclectic oddities clutter the shelves of the meager home. Candles burn beside stuffed dolls. It is simple and humble, yet comfortable. With it all, he finds her again.

She speaks with Yuna. About what, he doesn’t know. Their voices are miles away. But Yuna has traded her summoner garb for Al Bhed fashion while _she_ has changed as much as the sandy beaches. The furs and lace comfort him—a touch of familiarity which makes the surroundings tangible. Closer, even.

But the images transition without warning and Yuna is no longer there and it is the two of them and she’s sitting and she’s not smiling.

Auron hitches a breath he no longer needs. “Lulu.”

He rushes to her side and drops to his knees. He doesn’t dare touch her despite his incorporeal state. Out of habit, maybe? The details elude him.

Her clasped hands rest over her abdomen. Deep breaths flow through her. She stares at her lap for what seems like a lifetime. If only he could glimpse into her thoughts. Or perhaps it is better not to. Then again, even if he stood in the flesh beside her, he couldn’t combat whatever demons plague her now.

Again the area changes. Cheery echoes bounce off the walls. Auron rises alone in the home and looks out a window.

Yuna is on the beach with two other girls he doesn’t recognize. She’s there, next to Wakka and his teammates and whoever else resides on the island. They wave to Yuna and her friends as they board an airship, except for her. Or if she is, it doesn’t match Wakka’s frantic flailing.

The airship departs and the crowd thins out. She still stands there when the sun dips into the watery horizon. And Wakka is there with an arm around her. He can make out his voice in the white noise of the ocean, knowing that it’s _his_ , but the exact words don’t surface. She never says anything or she is too quiet for Auron to discern.

She’s silent when Wakka pulls close to kiss her forehead, then her stomach. She’s silent when they return to the home Auron stands in. She’s silent when night falls and they retreat to bed. She never closes her eyes.

When the moon is full and glittering in the ocean, she slips out. She is but a shadow moving across the floor, then the sand. He doesn’t remember joining her, but he sits beside her on the beach. A knit shawl covers her shoulders and catches in the breeze. Her hair is loose from the braids and pins she subjects it to. Empty red eyes regard the ocean the same way he looks at her now.

For a moment, he is oddly content with this—to exist beside her, even in memory. But her frozen form crumbles and she curls into herself and the filter muffling Spira lifts.

And she softly weeps.

Whatever restraint he demonstrated before vanishes. Auron embraces her, knowing neither of them can feel the other. But it is better than sitting idly. And maybe she knows, somehow—that he’s there, that he longs to kiss away her tears, that he will stay until the sun rises and the Farplane reclaims him.


	2. Chapter 2

He visits when he can. Little restricts him in the Farplane, yet he struggles with shifting. It’s like catching the wind. But when it works, Auron savors what time allows him.

And time continues to elude him. No sun rises and falls in the Farplane, so he searches for clues to reveal the passage of days and months and years. It’s first in the growing collection of tiny outfits she knits and sews. A room clears out and new furniture emerges. Then there are the shifts in _her_ , whether it is clothes to accommodate her swelling belly or teas and fruits she otherwise wouldn’t consider. She smiles, at times—something soft and small—and he likes to believe she is happy, but he remembers the beach at midnight and her cries piercing him like a jagged blade.

He still hears her. The clarity peeks through in sporadic bursts. What reaches him are pieces of a puzzle he cannot complete, but it is her voice—the same quiet timbre he still loves. Her dry wit comes to life and mixes with wisdom and annoyance. He smirks to himself when she rolls her eyes and unravels a lecture to an unknowing villager. Do they not know the roads she has traveled? The experience she exudes at her age? She suffers no fools and those who believe otherwise are asking to burn alive.

Yet another aspect missing from her life—the magic. She hasn’t forsaken it, but she reserves her spells for house chores. It flourishes when she is alone, which is more often than Auron is comfortable with.

Wakka comes and goes, perhaps oblivious to the hardships she endures. Auron can’t tell what runs through his mind—he couldn’t even when he was living—but the absence is borderline tangible. More blitzball, perhaps, despite his retirement. So he stands guard over her—her and an empty home. Nothing more.

He thinks between the shifts in time, the ones he has no control over, and dreams of what he would do differently. She wouldn’t need to rely on her magic, for he would be present. She wouldn’t need to go to bed alone. Nothing to stress about. Less scoffing, more smiling. He’d see to it.

What makes her smile these days? Those slivers of joy are rare and brief. Auron can guess why, but unless she breathes life to her thoughts, it is forever unknown. But he wishes happiness for her, whatever it may be, even if he can never bring her said happiness.

His surroundings meld into a new scene and voices fade in the distance. No one is inside the house. On the beach, however, is a crowd like the one from Yuna’s departure. She returns.

And if his sight isn’t deceiving him, so has someone else.

Truth be told, Auron has spent little time with his friends in the Farplane. He wonders if they notice his absence or if the lack of time and space makes years feel like seconds. But he knows Tidus was in the Farplane before this. And now he isn’t.

Now he is with Yuna in the water. She hugs him and doesn’t fall through him. He is solid and smiling and breathing and alive.

There is a flash of envy in Auron. Not for Tidus’ revival, but for the elation he brings Yuna. And she with him. It is in their grins and their locked stares and crushed bodies.

What does it feel like, he wonders? He has no answer, no experience to relate to. All he has are dreams existing on borrowed time.

The envy gives way to something else, a familiar haze he loathes. And as he turns away, he wishes for this to be his last visit, for why frequent a place that doesn’t welcome him? Fading back into the Farplane, he wonders _what_ his intent was to begin with. To return like Tidus? To let her know what he was unable to convey when they were together?

But the Farplane flickers out of sight and an unknown force latches onto Auron and jerks him back. He spirals through various scenes playing throughout the day—or is it weeks or months?—until he is standing back in her quaint home and everything smells like her. Almost suffocating. And she is there along with someone else.

And that someone is holding his katana.

The chime of pyreflies fills his ears in place of a rapid pulse. The colorful trails those wisps leave behind blur his vision. But this isn’t an illusion. The walls don’t ripple. The Farplane doesn’t bleed through. He can almost taste the damn air around him—a metallic tang flavored with salt.

It’s the sounds, however, which make Auron flinch—crystal clear and overflowing.

“What do you mean you just found it?” she asks, swaying her bundled infant in her arms. A tuft of orange hair pokes through the cloth; another pang of conscience sinks into Auron from the mere glimpse.

“Like I said.” The girl holding his sword shrugs and he recognizes the tone and posture, though he cannot place it. “It sort of… you know, appeared.”

A heavy sigh leaves her. “That’s not possible.”

“Yeah, okay, but here we are, so….”

“So?”

“It didn’t feel right with me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was _super cool_ to be swinging it around and I got quite a workout hauling it—”

“ _Rikku_. Get to the point.”

Auron raises his brows. Oh. It’s _her_?

Rikku rolls her eyes and leans into the katana. “I thought… you know.”

No response. Unless her narrowing gaze counts as one.

Visibly swallowing, Rikku lifts the sword, approaches her, and settles it against a kitchen counter. “I figured you’d want it.”

Auron hitches his breath out of habit. He brings his single good eye to her and waits. For a reaction, a reply, anything.

And there’s nothing, at first. She holds her cooing child and maintains eye contact with Rikku. With a soft huff, she scans the massive blade.

“What makes you think that?” she questions, her icy tone coating the cautious nature hidden underneath. Auron knows; he has heard it before.

Rikku shrugs. “Just a gut feeling.”

She raises a brow and purses her lips. “Really?”

“Okay, look, this is going to sound nutso, but whenever I used it… I felt… stuff. Like I’d be totally happy one second and then I’d be bummed or homesick or something. It was only when I used that dress sphere with this sword. And I don’t remember you or Sir Auron talking to each other, but he used to protect you in battle a lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot. More than everyone—”

“What use do I have for a sword?”

“Pfff, I don’t know. Put it on a wall? Use it as a coat rack?”

Auron coughs and is thankful neither acknowledge him.

“Lulu,” Rikku presses on, “you two seemed… close? In a way? Like you didn’t have to talk to each other, but you were on the same wavelength and I don’t know, that’s pretty cool if you ask me. And I thought if _this_ was still kicking around, even though he’s gone poof, maybe… maybe this can feel like he’s looking over you? Sort of?”

Rikku continues her rambling, but Auron ignores it to focus on her approaching his katana. After a pause, she extends a hand, ghosting over the hilt. Then she opens her palm and presses it into the flat of the blade.

And Auron almost crumbles to his knees.

New sounds flood his head and overwhelm whatever conversation the two ladies have. A cacophony of voices bombards Auron. All the same voice, a familiar one. It isn’t until she removes her hand from the katana that he makes the connection.

Something lingers, though, just as her eyes do regarding the sword. It pulses in Auron. If he could produce tears, they would swell in his eye until his screams echo across Spira. The sensation burrowing into him mirrors the moment on the beach, where she shed tears and was numb to his tender embrace.

He finally makes sense of her expression before he left for the Farplane, of how she turned away before he faded.

But he is fading yet again and the pyreflies no longer shriek in his ears and his friends cannot soothe him as he drops to the ethereal flower field and clutches his head.

* * *

Jecht doesn’t notice. Neither Braska nor Auron is surprised.

“So he’s back?” To this revelation, Jecht laughs. “Of course he is! Leave it to that punk to figure out a loophole and cheat death!”

Braska furrows his brow. “I suppose it makes sense.”

Jecht snorts. “Yeah, no, it really _doesn_ _’t_ make sense, but I’m not one to talk.”

“You two were created from dreams,” Braska elaborates. “Those who dreamed of you sustained you. If someone continued to dream of him, then perhaps….”

“Sounds like crap to me, but sure, we’ll go with that.”

Auron ponders on the theory while the two continue talking. Would that explain the recent phenomena revolving around her? If she dreams of him… could _he_ return?

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. That’s ridiculous. Auron isn’t a product of a dream world; he was real, once. Not anymore.

“Gil for your thoughts?”

Looking up, he finds both Braska and Jecht staring at him, the latter with a shit-eating grin.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” Jecht teases.

“You’ve been distant,” Braska adds.

“Not to mention you’ve been taking a hike more often than not.”

Well, so much for them not noticing.

“Have you been creating your own home in the Farplane?” Braska asks with a curious expression.

There’s no sense in evading the topic. So Auron inhales and explains his predicament.

Jecht bellows with laughter. Braska simply smiles. Auron furrows his brow and wonders why he bothers.

“I _knew_ it!” Jecht slaps his knee. “Oh, I love it! Our buddy here took his sweet time getting his butt to the Farplane because he found a hottie to stick around with—”

“That’s _not_ what I said,” Auron grumbles.

“Well, she didn’t expedite your trip, either, pal.”

“This Lulu,” Braska says, his gentle words a stark contrast to Jecht’s everything, “must be quite special.”

A slight smirk comes to life on his grim face. “She is.”

“I wonder who is responsible, though. You or her.”

“For what?”

Braska smiles and his attention veers elsewhere. “For your weapon appearing.”

He ponders on that, as well. Is it possible for a sent soul to manifest pieces of their life from mere yearning? But if Yuna wished for Tidus’ return, then maybe—just maybe—she wants the same with him. If only her thoughts flooding him briefly were coherent. Maybe he would know.

But Auron isn’t made of dreams and what materializes in Spira are reminders of what can never be reclaimed.

* * *

His visits are both planned and abrupt. At a moment’s notice, the scenery shifts and distant voices tease his ears. He both loves and loathes it.

Little indicates the passage of time, though he searches for the child as an indicator. Gradually, the child outgrows its swaddle and crawls the beaches with utter glee. She’s not far behind, always scoffing and scooping up the curious one.

But she’s a good mother, from what Auron can tell. She allows her son to fall and learn mistakes unknown to a toddler. And she is there to dry the tears in those fumbles. Yet she also booms with authority, grander than her lightning spells, when lessons aren’t learned and honest mistakes turn into defiance.

Sometimes he sees Wakka, who doesn’t harbor the intensity she does. Wakka’s the one their son runs to when he wants to smile and laugh and not care about the hardships of life. But she has her gentler moments; Auron knows this too well. Instead, she’s quiet once alone, as if basking in the brief solitude. She busies herself with chores gone undone, sometimes even repeating them despite the task’s completion.

He wonders why, but not for long; she always returns to his katana tucked in a corner by her dolls.

It’s always the same fleeting touch along the broadside, always the same melancholy thoughts. He cannot hear a single, coherent strand, but the sentiment thrums true. And he hates it when she turns away and returns to supper—he hates knowing there’s nothing to be done except to witness her life unfolding.

Night gives way to day and the child grows steadily. He plays with a blitzball on the beach with his father while his mother stays inside. How long has she been sitting there, her eyes fixed on the katana? Auron yearns for her thoughts, but she is frozen, save for her hands smoothing over one another.

Again the scenery changes and she is teaching her little one the basics of sewing. The young boy furrows his brow, unable to match the ease and grace his mother demonstrates. But she smiles and is patient with her son. And when they finish their stuffed animal, she wiggles her finger and the doll waves its hand.

The sheer joy illuminating his face even makes Auron smile. “Mommy! Mommy! Teach me how to do that!”

“Vidina, aren’t you already learning enough?” she says, a slight curl in her lips. “Daddy’s giving you blitzball drills, Auntie Yunie is helping with dance lessons, _and_ I heard Auntie Rikku was letting you watch her repair machina.”

The boy slumps. “Did Daddy tell you that?”

“Daddy doesn’t know—” And then she winks. “—but Mommies always know.”

“Is it okay?”

She pauses. Auron leans in closer to catch her answer. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life, but I’ll support it if it makes you happy.”

Another gasp, accompanied by a smile. “Really?!”

“I promise.”

There is laughter and praise. The two embrace before fading away. Amusement still stains the air, though another origin elicits the reaction. Auron peeks out a window to find mother and son on the beach together.

She sways her arms in grandiose motions. Embers spark to life. Vidina mimics her and succeeds. It’s like fireworks in their palms, full of color and excitement.

Even when they retreat home, Vidina can’t contain himself from conjuring another memorized spell. The magic entrances him, lips widening into a toothy grin. His orange locks are flames against the fiery evocations.

“Mommy! Did you see that?!”

And she’s not far behind, smiling and nodding. “You’re a quick learner.”

There’s pause, however, when she enters the bedroom to change out of her soaked and singed skirt. Auron follows and peers over her shoulder as she looms over a nightstand.

He doesn’t recognize the golden ribbon in her palms. It’s when she closes her fingers over the worn, soft fabric that her thoughts swim with it. Then he remembers; he touches the golden ribbon holding his low ponytail together.

It is the first strand he makes sense of, as if she is murmuring into his soul: _What is this doing here? Did he_ _…. No, that’s not right. This shouldn’t be here. And yet…._

With a gentle sigh, she pushes up a sleeve and loosely wraps the ribbon around her wrist: _I guess I always wanted a keepsake. I wish I could have given him something, then._

She smooths the sleeve to its full length and leaves the bedroom. She walks through Auron without a flinch. Her son is still laughing and playing with an orbit of miniature flames while she prepares dinner. They smile and her idle thoughts echo in him. He leans against a nearby wall and watches, wishing there was a way to preserve this bit of joy that warms his heart.

Whatever remains disappears along with the sun.

“Nuh-uh! No way!”

Auron turns, still in the house, yet a new scene plays out. Through a cracked door, Vidina is fast asleep. As for his parents, they stand in the living area and exchange sternly worded hushes.

“Do you not want for him to be happy?” she asks, arms crossed and delicate brows cinched together.

“How is he not happy already?” Wakka asks. “He’s got everything he could want—”

“Whatever makes _you_ happy doesn’t necessarily mean it will make _him_ happy.”

His nostrils flare. “But machina? That’s not right.”

“Times have changed, Wakka.”

“They’re changing too fast! He needs to slow down, breathe a little.”

She narrows her eyes. Her shoulders slide up her neck. “What does _that_ mean?”

“I dunno, Lulu. I’m worried, ya? Like he’s going too fast and I won’t be able to keep up.”

“Then maybe you need to spend less time coaching and more time—”

“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to drop an opportunity like that, can you? If not, then what am I supposed to do to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table?”

He hates how she looks away, as if yielding to defeat in a battle.

“Lulu,” Wakka continues, stepping closer, “you know I do all of this for you two, ya?” She opts for silence, even when he holds her. “I want us to be happy.”

She’s stiff against him, though gradually unwinds. “You shouldn’t be so harsh on him over things you don’t understand.”

He groans. “I know, but it ain’t easy.”

“Maybe _he_ could teach you.”

“Yeesh, way to rub it in.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

“Wakka, stop.”

She clutches his face. He ceases whatever idle pleasantries he occupies himself with.

“Please,” she says gently, almost trembling, “let him be happy. No matter what that means to him.” There’s no immediate response and her nails gently dent his skin. “ _Promise_ me.”

“Ya,” he breathes out. “Promise.”

With an exhale, she releases him. “Thank you.”

“What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

Wakka eases into her. “Are _you_ happy?”

A non-existent breath catches in Auron’s throat as he turns away. He doesn’t need to see this: the way Wakka embraces her, nuzzles into her, and even purrs for her. He swallows the envy and resentment; it burns all the way down to his stomach. Her answer never surfaces, but Auron can sense it—her mind is empty like a sky without stars.

He steps forward with the intent to return to the Farplane, but he returns to the bedroom instead. He curses under his breath and pivots away. Whatever chains him here he is unable to break free from.

But then it comes back—her voice threading his thoughts.

She’s thinking of him, thinking of how it would feel if it was his mouth coaxing her to moan, what it would be like to tangle up in him until exhaustion claims them. Fantasies layer one another. There are fragments of their time together, reimagined into a heated moment. She pants and begs for him in his mind, not knowing he’s barely in arms reach.

Auron closes his eye and reciprocates.

Does she sense it? The wanton thoughts he indulges in now? He did—still does—his best to respect her despite her appearances, but he is only human. Of course there were lingering gazes. Of course he wanted to slide a hand up her leg until he found skin. Of course he yearned to overwhelm her until she cried his name. Even now, he wants to melt into her, become one with her. He imagines how soft and warm she is in contrast to her cold nature. To drown in her is a welcoming fate.

A shiver lives in his dead body. If he humored her with such decadent acts, he doubts there was enough time to orchestrate them all.

He can almost feel her, like a vice grip on his heart. Each gasp, each moan, each spasm swells in Auron. She’s breathless and wild and beautiful. For a moment, he believes she _is_ happy. But her breaths deepen and the room quiets and she has yet to loosen her hold on him.

She’s trembling. He wants to believe it’s from the ecstasy.

Only when she finally falls asleep does she slip away from him. He opens his eye and the Farplane nearly blinds him with its radiant light.

* * *

“How did you do it?”

Jecht and Braska cease to traverse an illusion of Zanarkand and glance at Auron. He falls behind—nothing too unusual—but rarely does he raise a question without prompting.

“Do what?” Jecht asks.

After an inhale, he says, “Let go of the living world.”

They don’t pry Auron for details; they stand there with knowing expressions.

“It wasn’t easy,” Braska answers. “I wanted to watch over Yuna, but there’s nothing I could do to guide or protect her. I didn’t come to terms with that immediately, but it gets better.” He smiles slightly and sadness colors his face. “It helped to know others I trusted looked after her.”

Auron makes a sound—both understanding and reluctant—then looks to Jecht. For once, he stews in silence.

“Is it horrible to say it was a relief? To die, that is? You can only do so much for others, even when you _are_ alive, but they need to figure out that crap themselves. No amount of hand-holding is going to teach a lifetime of experiences.” He scratches the back of his head while eyeing the shimmering floor. “It was out of my hands. Either that or hover over people like I’m a damn ghost. Maybe I lack your compassion or whatever—” He nudges Braska with an elbow. “—but it felt right. For me _and_ him.”

“Sometimes,” Braska gently adds, “the most compassionate act you can commit is severing the ties.”

Auron has his thoughts regarding Jecht’s stance, but he nods nonetheless.

They resume their urban stroll in a city built on their imagination, the idle chatter surfaces to add to the white noise, and he is still at a loss with his conundrum.


	3. Chapter 3

Auron attempts to visit less. It’s not long before he has a reason to stay.

It starts with the katana. She eyes it between washing laundry and market visits. Slight pauses, not slow enough to notice and yet over in a blink. But Auron notices; so long as the ribbon envelops her wrist, her thoughts and emotions flow through him. It’s easier now, too—less of a torrent and more of a quiet rainstorm.

One day, she clutches the grip with both hands and attempts to lift it. She strains and groans and staggers, barely clearing it from the floor. Auron approaches, curious about her intent. The whispers in his head speak of this, yet he is unable to catch them. Another aspect of this storm. Ideas are lightning—quick and brilliant—and rarely caught in bottles.

He blinks and almost misses her son beside her. He’s grown between breaths, daring to be taller than his father. No longer a child, he blooms into a young man, as poised as his mother. And stubborn, like both parents.

Vidina watches his mother sew a new doll, one that is a heavily modified onion knight model. “What’s that for?”

“A new addition to my arsenal,” she murmurs.

“Why’s that? All the monsters have thinned out. Unless you want to go fishing?”

She shakes her head, ties off the lustrous thread, and turns the stitched-together pattern inside-out. “No.”

“Then what, Mom?”

She grabs a basket of down feathers from a chocobo and stuffs the doll. “This one is for me.”

No further questions. The son fades from view and moonlight replaces the sun. She meticulously adds minute details from the pearl button eyes to the yarn hair to the leather armor to the crystal-lined hems. With the back sewn up, the doll is complete and lies in her open palms.

“I trust you,” she says, her voice almost lost to the distant ocean waves, “so please trust me.”

Auron is unsure if she speaks to herself, the doll, or even him. But she bows her head, kisses the cloth face, and settles the tiny warrior onto the floor. When she stands from her chair, so does the doll.

Together they approach the katana. The doll mimics her sweeping gestures, drawing circles in the air. Nothing happens, at first. Then the sword levitates.

The scene shifts to the outdoors—another night, if her change of clothing is any indication—and she hauls the floating sword with her. Fingers twitch to maintain concentration. The doll is close by, tiny arms raised as if it is carrying the weight of the weapon.

She spins and thrusts a palm forward. The katana mirrors the motion and strikes the sand, albeit clumsy. She purses her lips. Again she performs the same motion with varying results. The moon overhead cycles through its phases and both her wardrobe and hair braids alternate, but always the same act to perfect.

First she alters her attire. The elaborate, constrained dresses she favors do not lend to swordsmanship, even via magic. She designs herself a loose, asymmetrical kosode, haori, and hakama. The garb is like Auron’s, yet isn’t. She adds her own touches, whether it’s the black and purple fabrics or the fur lining on the collar or the dark lace intertwining with leather at the openings. A perfect marriage between the traditions of a black mage and a monk.

Sometimes the doll collapses, stuffing bursting through its ripped seams. She cradles the damaged thing like an infant and patches what she can. She uses new threads, ones imbued with stronger magic. She creates additional armor pieces and trades crystals for precious gems. It’s in between her chores she fine-tunes the warrior doll and when she’s done tinkering, Auron can’t help but think it looks like _her_.

Again she slips out at night to dance with her magic and his katana. The blade no longer crashes into the sand. She makes it light and fluid—an extension of herself. The doll also spins and gestures with her. Its modifications hold up, finally. And when she and the doll pivot and slice the ocean breeze with an open palm, the katana follows and perfectly cuts a target melon in half.

Auron smirks. So does she. For once, their thoughts are in sync, borderline identical.

It almost pains him what she does with the katana from there, but he tells himself the blade is no longer his. If she deems the broadside worthy of magical glyphs, then who is he to question her? She borrows tools from Rikku during her visits to chip away at the metal, a contained firaga heating the blade in one hand and a chisel in the other. Sometimes Vidina helps, showing his mother how to sand the rough edges for a smooth finish. He ties his thick, orange braids into a bandana, sticks his tongue out, and aids his mother. Together they hunch over the blade. They are quiet and diligent—the very sight warms his heart.

The finishing touch comes later—perhaps years later; he can no longer tell—in the form of magically imbued oils. She kneels over the katana on the beach and pops each cork. The viscous liquids slosh in their assigned bottles, gradually coating each carving until they are full. She ghosts a palm over the oiled glyphs and murmurs a chant. Magic glows in her hands and one-by-one, the glyphs do so, as well. They hiss, then fade to cold steel.

And when she sits her warrior doll on the sand and dances with it and the sword, she snaps her fingers to a phantom rhythm and the katana ignites. Flames roar and swirl in the wake of each swing. An abrupt tilt of her hips and the fire flickers out. She cycles through the elements, summoning them no different than when she was strictly a black mage.

“Wow.”

Vidina’s voice catches her off guard, though the doll maintains the sword’s levitation. Turning to the young man he has become, she raises a brow. No thoughts surface; she is neither judgmental nor afraid. As a mother should be, he thinks.

“That’s _incredible_ ,” he says. “This is what you’ve been working on?”

The katana floats in front of her and she brushes fingertips across the glyphs. “Something to keep myself occupied.”

But the thoughts flowing through Auron say otherwise.

Her son furrows his brow; perhaps he’s not convinced, either. “Mom? What will you do now?”

Her eyes fall. Auron crosses his arms and watches. The breeze plays with her loose, black hair, now lined with silver. Pain colors her features and thoughts.

Then a gentle hand settles on her shoulder. She gasps and straightens up. Vidina stands opposite her with a smile.

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

With a deep breath, she nods.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

She huffs. “For the time to be right.”

“When will that be?” He tilts his head while she is silent. “When I move out? When Dad finally retires from blitzball?” He squeezes her shoulder. “Please don’t let it be when it’s too late.”

She brushes the hand away. “I have my responsibilities.”

“What, cleaning the house? Teaching local kids history and sewing? Maybe some magic, if they’re lucky and eager? Mom, all my life I’ve seen you doing things for others. You never stop to do something for yourself. Why? What’s there to lose?”

There is no answer, not even in Auron’s head. She blinks and tears catch in her lashes. It’s not enough to smother the sob that falls from her trembling lips. She doubles over, but Vidina is there to catch her. The katana drops like a dead weight in the sand and the doll slumps over. And mother and son cling to each other.

“You know what you always told me?” he whispers into her. “To do what makes me happy. Isn’t it time you do the same for yourself?”

The tears blend with the ocean. It echoes in his head when he returns to the Farplane. He thinks of her swordsmanship mixed with magic—how natural it comes to her, as if she was born for this. He wishes for there to be a way to guide her, to nudge her down the proper path. The one where the road welcomes her.

But all he can do is wait and watch.

* * *

Her son is no longer there. His bedroom is clean and barren. The house is tidied with an extra set of polish along every corner. Twilight eases through the windows and casts the interior in a deep blue hue. And she rummages about without candlelight to guide her.

She takes several items from each cupboard to stash in a pack. She’s wearing her custom attire, the one she reserves for her swordplay. Her warrior doll sits on her shoulder, curious button eyes watching her hands. His sword hovers over her back, as if in an invisible sheath.

Her mind is blank. Auron isn’t certain if this should unsettle him or not.

With the pack stuffed, she ties it off, casts a levitation spell on it to join the sword, and turns to find Wakka in a door frame.

“You’re up early,” he says, words laced with exhaustion and worry.

“Wakka,” she says. There’s defeat in her voice and posture, but he lifts a hand and shakes his head before she has a chance to say more.

“Why do I have the feeling this isn’t another case of you sneaking out at night to do whatever?” He sighs, losing several inches in height. “What _are_ you planning on doing?”

Nothing. She wraps her arms around her form and tenses. He gazes at her and she focuses elsewhere out a window.

“Were you even going to say goodbye?” he asks above a whisper.

Her brows knit together as she whips her head to center. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I was.”

He laughs, but the sound is weak. “Yeah. Of course.”

Silence rolls by them. A constant shiver lives in Auron and he soon realizes it’s not his own—it’s her.

“Makes sense,” Wakka says with a shrug. “First Vidina, now you. Maybe I should take a hint and pack my bags or something.”

Her eyes soften and drop to her fidgeting hands. “Wakka.”

“No, I get it. Truly, I do. You’ve spent decades here—for other people. Everything you’ve done has been for someone else. And it got me thinking.” He shifts weight onto another leg and rubs his neck. “I don’t think I ever knew what it was you wanted. But that’s on me, ya? I figured if you hated something, you would’ve told me, so I didn’t think to ask.”

“I didn’t hate anything, Wakka.”

“But did you love it, Lulu?” Her silence speaks loud enough. “Did I ever make you happy?”

“Wakka, please.” She closes the distance between them and rests a hand on his cheek. “You’ve done everything you possibly could to make my life comfortable.”

“But it wasn’t enough?”

She draws in a deep breath. “I never had a future for myself. Back when we were Yuna’s guardians, I was ready to die for her. What was the point in thinking beyond that when I wouldn’t live to see it? But then I lived.” A brief thought blips into Auron’s mind: _We all did_ _… no, that’s not right._ “And I didn’t know what to do with myself. You gave me something normal.”

He chuckles. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It wasn’t. You kept me safe. You made sure I never needed anything. You gave me a family.”

He leans in and raises a brow. “But?” When she doesn’t answer, he continues. “There was always something I couldn’t give. It didn’t hit me until _that_ showed up.” He motions with his chin to the katana hovering over her back. “Is it… _his_?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you _want_ it to be his?”

It pains Auron when none of her thoughts meld with his, but she is not quiet for long. “Yes.”

Wakka nods, though Auron wonders if he understands. “Makes sense, I guess. He was quiet. You were quiet.” He cracks a smile, but the laugh that follows is bittersweet. “Hard to compete with a guy like that.”

“It wasn’t _about_ competition.”

“Nah?” He tilts his head. “Did he know?”

She wrings her hands together. “No.”

“Were you ever close?”

Auron wants to laugh. How was he to know about the subtle intricacies of their connection, then and now?

“Maybe,” she says and her tone guts him. “I don’t know anymore. I like to think we were, but does it matter?”

“Seems to me it does. Why else would his sword show up?”

She sighs, reaches back to touch the grip, then the doll. “I like to think it was a reminder.”

“Hmm? Of what?”

“To live my life, even when I had no future planned.”

He thinks of that discussion, back in the ruins of Zanarkand. He should have done something, then. Sweep her into his arms, kiss away the tears she refuses to cry, anything to let her know she is worthy of life. Endless potential resides in her and yet she never saw it. Not until now.

“Was this life not enough?” Wakka asks, following her outside.

The sun hasn’t crawled over the horizon yet, though the cool sky gives way to pale pinks and oranges. The ocean marks the air and its breeze claims her loose hair. She takes a moment to unravel the golden ribbon she has kept on her wrist for years. Twisting her black hair over her shoulder, she fastens it with the ribbon and ties it tight in a knot. Auron instinctively touches his own hair and the same ribbon containing the locks.

“It was,” she answers. “Every waking day is, for it’s another day spent alive.” After a breath, she goes on. “I need to do this, Wakka. For my own sanity. I still don’t know what I’m meant for in this world, but I want to do something for myself and not settle for anything ever again.”

He chuckles. “Starting to think those YRP girls rubbed off on you, ya?”

“Maybe.”

“So this is goodbye?”

She turns to face him. Dawn’s distant glow illuminates her face. Long gone are her dark, painted eyes and mouth. Fine wrinkles line her face in place of makeup. But she is smiling—both her lips and eyes—and it is the most beautiful he has ever seen her.

“I like to think it’s the start of something new for me,” is what she offers in reply.

“Don’t be a complete stranger, ya?” He shuffles up to her and she closes the distance. They embrace as the sun extends its rays over the ocean. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I hope you find it.”

“Thank you, Wakka.”

“I love you, Lulu.”

She loosens her arms and so does he. She cups his cheek. Another smile, another breath, then she pulls away. Her booted feet dip into the sand. The sun warms her face. One last inhale and she rushes to the docks.


	4. Chapter 4

He would stay and witness her journey in its entirety if he could. It’s an ebb and flow, as it always has been—less of a lingering haze and more like a collage. Bits and pieces connect, some that he stumbles onto himself and others which she tugs him into.

She visits Vidina in Luca, who works at the stadium as a combination of an entertainer and an effects technician. The stage lights up with pyrotechnics only a mage can conjure. She smiles in the audience as the concert proceeds, her son dancing with flames and lightning in the background. They reunite after the performance, awake in the witching hours over empty cups of tea.

“Where are you heading to next, Mom?” he asks.

Red eyes regard the northern horizon with longing. “I’m not sure.”

“Seems kind of lonely, traveling on your own.”

She hums, tapping a finger along her jawline. “Perhaps. I find it oddly comforting.”

“Well,” Vidina says with a massive grin, “if anything decides to disrupt your peace and quiet, you’ll show ‘em a thing or two with _that_ sword you’re lugging around!”

The katana leans against her chair and the warrior doll perches on the hilt, as if keeping watch during their late-night teatime. Auron leans against a nearby wall, arms crossed, and smiles.

“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” she says, but her devious smirk says otherwise.

“Well, be careful out there, Mom.” Vidina rests a hand over hers for emphasis. “You might have helped Auntie Yunie bring about this Eternal Calm, but there’s plenty to be wary of on the roads. Sometimes the worst monsters are humans.”

Those words echo in Auron as the scene shifts. Luca fades in the distance as she runs a familiar path, like from their pilgrimage with Yuna. The terrain differs from when he last walked it; people travel new roads and nature reclaims the rest. Chocobos pass by with absentminded riders. The occasional airship soars overhead. More machina blends with the landscape. And not a summoner in sight.

She forgoes inns to sleep under the stars, or what is left of the spectacles. The expanding cities sprawl past their foundations and pollute the skies with artificial lights. He keeps vigil when she sleeps, his katana not far from her. She dreams of many things: her doubts and regrets in her youth, a world where Sin has returned, life back on Besaid with her family, and more. Only the ones where she dreams of sacrificing herself as Yuna’s Final Aeon jolt her back to reality. He wishes to hold her, when she pants and trembles, unsure which life is reality.

The roads are as turbulent and sporadic as her dreams. Either the path mimics the clear skies or monsters sniff her out—both native creatures and humans. Even without Sin, people remain corrupt and ruthless. She encounters bandits and pretentious nobodies. They see her as someone weak, worthy of preying upon.

Every time, she makes them regret their decision. Auron watches the idiots flee, like dogs with their tails between their legs.

He remembers stepping between her and countless monsters, ensuring whatever blow meant for her lands on him instead. But now? She doesn’t need saving anymore and she proves it with each deadly dance. She spins and flourishes with the katana, individual glyphs glowing and activating various elements. Whatever blocks her path is struck down. And then she moves on and never looks back.

But where is she going? She ponders this, too, more often than not. All she knows—and so does he—is that she wakes each morning and keeps going.

Her path varies from Yuna’s pilgrimage in that she slips into roads both are unaware of. Sometimes the unknown rewards her with lovely scenery in the form of a small waterfall or an entanglement of trees or a patch of flora foreign to well-trodden roads. And then there are perils longing to strike her down, whether to satiate hunger or bloodlust. She always brandishes the katana, waltzing with her warrior doll as the sword obeys and strikes true. Each sweep of her arms and legs is a sight to behold. He loves it, yet he wishes the need to fight never existed. She deserves a journey free of worries, but he cannot blame her for relishing in an act she never allowed herself to enjoy.

She’s a natural, after all. He expects nothing less from her.

The landscapes shift. Rain comes and goes, as does the greenery. Each visit of his leaves him smiling. Where is she now, he wonders? Has she found whatever it is she’s looking for? She gets by with errands and quests from locals, mostly to take care of problematic monsters. Nothing heroic, but it pays. Sometimes the honest praise of humble strangers is more uplifting than anyone supposedly important can bestow upon.

And she is content. That is all that matters to him.

Then his smile fades one visit.

She is somewhere in the Macalania Woods, slumping against a tree and clutching her abdomen. Blood stains her glowing palms as she chants. Perhaps Yuna taught her several white magic spells before her departure. He doesn’t remember. He closes the distance between them and examines her wound. What punctured her? Is there poison festering within?

She slides down the tree and tilts her head back. After several casts, she stops the bleeding. Sweat lines her brow. Each breath is shallow and staccato. Her doll curls into her lap, as if to comfort her. She strokes the yarn hair and closes her eyes.

Auron doesn’t leave her side. He kneels beside her in the dark woods, wary of any creature passing by. For the first time, he doesn’t inhale her aroma—the mixture of incense and beach essence. He forgets it exists until it’s gone.

Nothing disturbs her. Only the chime of pyreflies keeps him company during his vigil.

Eventually, she opens her eyes. She yawns and stretches. Not so much of an ache restrains her as she stands, gathers her belongings, and resumes her path.

The days wash together. He blinks and she is elsewhere, running down forgotten paths. Her visits in each settlement are brief, long enough to restock on her inventory. She takes to the natural splendor as if it is her first trip down this road. She stops to eat and rest. Nothing more. And Auron trails behind like the ghost he is.

But what is he to do? Carry her up Mount Gagazet? She has made it this far on her own. She reminds herself as much. _Keep going,_ her thoughts thrum in his head. _It_ _’s not much further. There’s no point in going back now. You have to do this._

She scales the mountain slowly. Ice forms on the katana and the doll. She hugs herself to stay warm and ignores the cold striking through her. He can almost feel her muscles begging for rest, but she doesn’t stop. She hasn’t for some time.

And when she crests the top, she overlooks Zanarkand. Little has changed, if anything at all. She catches her breath, rubs her hands over her biceps, and continues to the ruins.

Pyreflies still dance in the sky. Auron can’t distinguish the ones here from the ones residing in the Farplane. Their chimes are louder now, perhaps due to the overlap he exists in. He ignores the sound as it fades with the wind.

He follows her, walking the same path from the pilgrimage years ago. The monsters are scarce, but still loom in the crevasses. Two simple steps and a swing of her arm finishes each one. Her steps stutter, as do her breaths. He’s not there to catch her if she falls, but she’s yet to do so. She was always one to keep her head high despite the circumstances.

But she needs rest. That much he can tell.

It’s when the sunsets that she finds the old camping ground they used. No one has touched it since then, barely recognizable as a resting spot. But she lodges the katana into the ground and it stands on its own. The doll leaps from her shoulder and slides down the broadside to nestle at the base. As for her, she lifts her hakama before sitting by the edge of the cliff, the fabric splaying around her like a halo.

Warm light washes over her tired features. Pyreflies swarm to her, revolve around her. Red eyes focus beyond everything. And he sits beside her, hoping this is the relief she desires.

“I didn’t think I’d come here again,” she murmurs and he swears he imagines it. “There’s really no point, is there?”

He holds his tongue and watches her. A corner of her lips curls up.

“I remember when we first arrived here,” she continues. “I had never seen anything so beautiful before. Is it odd to say that? Maybe it’s because I found comfort in something that wasn’t perfect; it was beautiful to me and that’s all that mattered.

“I wanted to spend more time here.” She pauses. “Spend more time with you.”

Auron freezes. Pyreflies catch in her hair. He can no longer hear the wind.

“We talked about the future here and how I had none. I didn’t realize you felt the same. Well, the same, yet not. I still don’t know what I want, both now and then. I just….” Her eyes drop and she smooths her hands over one another. Pyreflies squeeze past the cracks in her fingers. “All I knew was that I wanted to spend it with you.”

She scoffs. “It’s stupid. I should be living for myself. I shouldn’t have settled. I shouldn’t have done many things, but I was tired of deciding. Whatever I picked, it wasn’t going to compare to those quiet nights we spent together, watching the stars and nothing else.” She tilts her head back now to witness said stars. Dusk burns off and twilight seeps into the land. Only the pyreflies illuminate the area. “I shouldn’t have been quiet, though. It was too late once I realized that. I tried to move on, but there was always that childish dream of mine, where things would’ve worked out—where we could have been happy together.”

He wants to hold her. He wants to lift her worries. He wants to make her happy. Whatever weight she carries she can let go.

“That’s why I came here,” she says. “It’s hard to say where exactly you left, but I thought… maybe here. Where you died. Maybe if I died here, too—” She rests a gentle palm over the old wound from Macalania. “—then it would be easier to find you. I don’t know how the Farplane works, but anything to shorten the distance between us.”

With a deep inhale, she closes her eyes. “After all, every reminder of you would never be enough to replace you.”

Tension fades from her body. The pyreflies sing and dance between them. He can barely see Zanarkand or the Farplane—all he sees is her.

Without thinking, he reaches out and settles a hand on her shoulder. “I’m right here.”

She hitches her breath. Red eyes snap open and meet with his. She no longer looks through him; she is looking _at_ him.

“Auron?” she murmurs.

He squeezes her shoulder. They sit not on a cliff in Zanarkand, but by the waterfalls he frequents in the Farplane.

“Lulu,” he says, her name a quiet roll on his tongue.

She cups his face, a thumb brushing over his stubble. Her skin against his is warm and soft and solid. He leans into her touch, allowing himself to close his eye to savor it.

“I was always right here,” he says.

There’s more to say. It dissolves from his mind when she jerks him closer and crushes her lips upon his.

The sensation flooding him is foreign, at first. It’s when he melts into her and his lips loosen that he remembers it. Utter rapture swells within and he hates how he forgot what it felt like. Arms slip around her form to bring her closer, to taste her lips again and again to burn that sensation into his core.

Their bodies shift. Soft coos adorn her lips. She’s smiling in between each kiss and so is he. Auron embraces her how he always wanted to and she sinks into his lap and refuses to release him. Fingers thread dark hair and both their golden ribbons loosen. He longs to drown in her kisses as he reclines into a bed of ethereal flowers. She looms above, the distance between their bodies lost, nothing but a tangle of arms and legs.

And she kisses him as if she will be whisked away at a moment’s notice. A fire burns in each playful nip and smolders when she deepens in slow, mindful motions. He trembles against her, a complete thrall to whatever spell she enchants him with.

“Lulu,” he manages to say between kisses.

She pauses and the inaction sears in his bones. “Mmm?”

“I’ve missed you.”

The sound she releases—a gentle purr—brings a hitch in his throat. “The feeling’s mutual.”

She dips in for more and he closes his eye, welcoming it.

The abrupt, playful whistle piercing the air, however, is not welcomed.

“Hey, _hey_! What do we have here?!”

She stops. Auron smacks his face and groans. It was only a matter of time.

Jecht stands in a sweep distance. Braska is not far behind. Even from Auron’s perspective, there’s no denying the massive grin his friend wears.

“Is _this_ the one you’ve been hung up on?!” Jecht dramatically fans himself. “Damn, you didn’t say anything about her being one helluva smoke show!”

“Friends of yours?” she murmurs into his jaw, both annoyed and playful.

“Maybe if we ignore them—” He pushes himself to seated, ignoring how perfectly she sits in his lap and how much he _loves_ it. “—they’ll leave us alone.”

“What, you’re not going to introduce us?!” Jecht calls out.

“It’s only fair,” Braska adds. “We know close to nothing about this mysterious woman.”

She lifts a brow and eyes Auron. “I’m mysterious?”

“You’re many things,” he says back, soft enough for only her. “Maybe when we’re alone, I can enlighten you with the details.” He winces. “ _If_ we’re alone.”

“Good.” With a final wiggle of her hips into his, she rises to stand and extends a hand. “Because I have plenty of my own to share with you.”

Can he still blush in the Farplane? If her slight smirk is any indicator, maybe he can. Or his expression pleases her enough to turn her rare smiles into commonplace. But he slides his hand into hers, savoring the mix of calloused fingertips and smooth patches. Once he stands beside her, he turns to find Jecht and Braska approaching them.

For all the teasing Jecht subjects him to and the knowing look Braska exchanges with him, Auron is content. Since his arrival in the Farplane, he viewed it as a foreign land unworthy of the title of home. But he has no reason to glimpse into Spira anymore. The Farplane solidifies around him and the pyreflies sing. He walks alongside his friends into one of their crafted illusionary worlds. This time, he doesn’t linger behind. He is not alone nor is his mind elsewhere.

Lulu is next to him, one arm looping into his. And her touch is real as is her scent and smile and laughter. All rare gems they never experienced together. Now? Now they have a thousand lifetimes to do just that. No more borrowed time. No more regrets. It was simply a matter of where to begin.


End file.
